


Reunion

by Fantine_Black



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, Gellert Grindelwald Being Creepy, M/M, Manipulative Gellert Grindelwald, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Nurmengard, Protective Credence Barebone, Protective Original Percival Graves, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-02-04 09:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18601318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantine_Black/pseuds/Fantine_Black
Summary: "He wasn’t so much surprised when Grindelwald approached him, words soft and honey sweet, cock rock hard. Truly, it wasn’t the first time.It was that it wasn't him."Credence visits an unconscious Percival Graves in the Nurmengard dungeon.





	Reunion

Credence is angry.

It’s a sullen, useless kind of anger, the last of him now entirely commodified. He'd hoped to find something here, but realises his mistake with a dull exasperation that, on closer inspection, is almost somewhat funny. Every promise, every dream has only ever led to more humiliation, pain, use; the promised land turned into purgatory.

He wasn’t so much surprised when Grindelwald approached him, words soft and honey sweet, cock rock hard. Truly, it wasn’t the first time – tearful stable boys, whimpering _please_ and _no_ and _I'll do anything_ a bigger turn on in real life than even in his sickest churchboy fantasies, and a lot less pleasant in the flesh _. I could kill you_ made him bear it, but the vast cruelty of the world outside was a far better jailer than any cage or threat, and that was when he still had expectations.

No, it was that it wasn’t _him_.

Queenie had shown him, unbidden, that Mr. Grindelwald and Graves were one and the same, that there only ever was Gellert. Credence came to him then, begging him at least to wear his face, his hands.

These hands.

Grindelwald had shown him later, when Credence was angry enough to rip him apart, that Percival Graves had only ever been here, an empty shell for Grindelwald to wear. That this – and his smile was truly cruel – was the closest that Credence would ever get to him, if he did so desire. ("Credence", not Aurelius, as if he had yet to live up to that name.)

But he does. Desire. Covet.

He covets.

The door’s been shut with spells and bolts (“We learnt our lesson there, sweetheart,” Queenie says, dipping into his mind at will) but Credence is angry enough, petulant, to huff himself into a small cloud, slip in through cracks in wood and stone; besides, no one cares about people slipping _into_ a dungeon.

There he is, face sunken and bloody; drained, as if he suffers from consumption. Credence recognises the shirt, and the cufflinks - there’s something alive about them, and he is absolutely sure that Mr. Graves has been stung by them more than once.

Graves' chest moves weakly.

He’s wearing socks, and that detail mocks Credence, because those he never got to see, because Mr. Graves had never taken him to places where rich men take boys, places a lot like this place, in the upper quarters, places where Grindelwald fucked him as if he had some score to settle. No. Of course he'd get a dungeon, and a mangled saviour who never even knew his name. Of course.

But he _will_ have him.

He’s made a whole life on scraps, and so he touches Graves' shoulder, places the flat of his hand on the too prominent collarbone where he'd once rested his cheek. He wished then to touch more, and strokes down now – yes, it is that shirt, torn but the Egyptian cotton unmistakable.

He lays his head down and sniffs.

He smells decay and grime, like the streets of New York, like beggars slowly wasting. But yes, him too, because he did sweat, of course, never like this, but due to exertion, purpose. No pommade, now, or cologne, the scent Credence had tried to sniff out in a department store, before someone shoo'd him away. His eyes, nose, lips are the same, though, those lips that never kissed him, would not –

Well, he’ll have to make do.

These eyebrows, in a crease of unconscious pain. Why couldn’t he, Credence, smooth it out, heal by touch, like Jesus, like Graves? Why was he left with this mockery of his devotion?

He rips the shirt, though the collar won’t give, and the scorpions there hiss to life. _Don’t fucking try me_ seems to register, though, so he’s free to tear down the slacks. He has to _see_ , needs the pale imitation of his dream.

It is beautiful. Magnificent. Wasted.

Waste not –

Graves is a strong man, his muscles shrunk but not atrophied. Scars everywhere, raised welts. (He can relate.)

Cock soft against his thigh.

Fuck. Fuck!

But that isn’t what he wants, he wanted to _be_ fucked, held, by the only one ever to know him this deeply. He’s slicked himself up today, like some little whore, but he doesn’t care, he’s beyond shame, he’s nothing but shame. He wants to be naked, skin to skin, with Mr. Graves, and so what if it’s cold, he’s had worse. He wants his slippery hole against this cock so he does it, straddles the cot Graves lies on naked as the day he was born. Takes his own cock and jerks off above the man's chest and yes, oh, Graves' cock begins to fill, it’s undeniable, and Credence shifts down to cup it, stroking it into hardness. Wishes Graves would wake up, wishes Graves would never wake as he plants his hole above it, lowers himself down, guides Graves inside.

He moans, they both do, as a gurgling sound escapes the man’s lips.

Shut up. He'll have this. For once in his life, he'll have this, another promise never kept. And it feels good, as he sets the pace, committed to nothing but his own pleasure. And if he does cry, they are tears of rage, bitterness and regret, that starts to fill the cavity in his chest, around his ribcage, the pit of his stomach as he throws his head back. He’s so close, he'll dissolve, he –

A hand tightens around his wrist, and he looks down, defiant, at those eyes that will give nothing back –

The fingers loosen, but don’t leave. The eyes are hazy, but alive.

His lips curl in a smile.

“ ...Cre…dence -”

His body stills, the cloud retreats. Mister Graves’ eyes darken.

“Cre-dence, run …” he whispers, breathless. “Run, boy, I'll distract them…”

Credence pulls back, kneels beside the cot. “Too late,” he whispers, “Mr. Graves – "

A tear escapes his eye. “Not you, too, not … Credence, _go_ -"

But Credence wraps his arms around Graves' shaking, wasted body.

“I'm sorry,” he keens, “I didn’t know – ”

A hand rests lightly on his neck. “It’s OK, sweetheart, save yourself – ”

“No,” he says, smiling for the first time in weeks.

“Gonna save you.”

                                -Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is msfbgraves.tumblr.com if you wanna talk! :)


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